


Hell is empty, all its Devils are at school

by Nobodystormcrow



Series: Schadenfreude [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Basil has a Hell Ring, Bel is besotted, Bel's the Prince of a magical kingdom, Dementors are afraid, Dolores Umbridge Being an Asshole, Fiddling for Souls, Flames are raw power, Gen, Giotto went to Hogwarts, He messes about with Voldemort's soul, M/M, Magic is more delicate, Mammon went to Hogwarts, Mammon's gender is Mammon, Stop poaching our talent please Mafia assassins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2020-09-29 16:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nobodystormcrow/pseuds/Nobodystormcrow
Summary: Dumbledore contracts the Varia to kill Voldemort. Prince of Astonia, Belphegor is sent, along with the Antichrist, Basil of the CEDEF. Poor Umbridge. Poor Fudge. Poor wizarding world.





	1. Chapter 1

Virtue begets success, and vice sires failure. Or so they say. Don't believe them. They're just spreading enemy propaganda. It just goes that in select circumstances with select individuals, the opposite is true. How?

Say, if a certain Goblin Nation is quite Fed Up with a certain Minister of Magic, wouldn't you call this Wrath? Realizing their Wrath, they made discreet inquiries to a certain honorary Goblin called Mammon about the price of a certain head. Mammon, seeing a buisiness opportunity, helpfully dropped some hints about other potential hits, including one for Tom Marvolo Riddle, alias Voldemort.

Naturally, Goblins being Goblins, they were quite miserly about their money, and would most certainly refuse to spend one Knut more than necessary. That's Greed. Motivated by avarice, the Goblin Nation decided to seek alternative methods of achieving their aims, namely, offloading the matter of payment onto wizards.

What wizard?

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, of course.

And Dumbledore, being just slightly more Slothful in this universe than any other, accepted. He was an old man, and rather appreciated only having to sacrifice money for the Greater Good instead of having to fail one boy to clean up a previous failure--he wanted to be good rather than Good, though he recognized that the former could only exist if the latter was upheld.

He was in for quite a shock. (We all know that this is the best thing that could ever happen to the wizarding world, but he doesn't.)

A barely teenage boy with a tiara on a head of blond, eye-obscuring hair was using an even younger boy's lap as a pillow, and idly playing with a handful of gleaming silver knives. He wore the uniform of the assassins over a black-and-purple striped shirt and oozed the lazy malice of a cat, while his companion, dressed in the formal suits favored by the mafia sat with posture that could put most purebloods to shame, not even flinching as the tip of a knife brushed his throat, drawing blood, instead opening the monstrous binder at his side for both children's perusal.

Both were so young--the younger was barely Hogwarts age.

"Surely you don't mean for these children to conduct murder!" He knew that hiring contracted assassins was already morally unacceptable, but at least that would be the delegation of the task to professionals who were aware of the risks and who, Atheris--who now used the name Mammon--had assured him, were more than capable. But these were children. Younger than Harry, not much older than Ariana. And Atheris' organization would be sending them against the greatest dark lord of the time.

The white-haired man snorted and yelled, "VOI! Intel states that Potter's a trouble magnet! Given that we can't track the target by conventional means, we'll have to wait for him to come to us, and psych analysis, both independent and the one you provided shows that the trash will come after Potter-trash. Potter-trash is going to school, so a student will blend in better than a teacher, and we can spare the knife-brat far more easily than we can anyone else. 'sides, there's bound to be a Horcrux or two in the school, so they can explore without having to train trash on the side!"

"They are children!" Dumbledore emphasized again, "And, you only spoke about the older one. What of the younger boy?"

Xanxus--Atheris' superior, jerked a thumb towards the younger boy, "Other brat's not ours, but he'll be coming anyways unless you want a massacre. You want an assassination, you give us the name, we send the trash for the job. You want a specific someone, you tell us at the start and pay extra. Contract's done, we're just introducing you to the executors. Transfer us the gold via Mammon, then we'll arrange the covers and send you the finalized intel next week."

Dumbledore gathered himself. It was a unpleasant thing to be forced to let go of a alternative path, but even having Harry be the one to strike the final blow would be better than this. "I can not countenance the making of children into weapons." He said calmly, "Or do you think I haven't noticed that you still haven't called them by any names?"

Xanxus grunted, "Our brat's Belphegor, the Storm Prince, Prince the Ripper. He's here because he's Quality enough to be an Officer. Not a weapon, old man. Other brat talks like an idiot but is also Quality. Don't bother with asking names, only one person knows and it certainly is not me. Just use the name of his cover."


	2. Ollivander's

Rare indeed is the patronage of those with fire blazing in their souls. Why, I remember as if it were yesterday, young Giotto, not yet Active, coming for his cedar wand. That particular wand is only ashes now, sadly, but the nature of that most raw and primeval force you wield means that no wood may channel it for long. It is for a reason that your weapons are made of that bones of the world, metal and stone.

You two, powerful Actives? Oh, with one born under Mars and the other of both Neptune and Mercury? No wand in earth could possibly endure that onslaught of power for more than a year and a day, even with the adaptive action of the secondary cores that I see you've brought me.

Feather from an Arcobaleno's familiar dusted in shards of a fallen star, and fire opals from the mines of Astonia. My, those are powerful things. Without further ado, let's begin. The young man of Mars first.

Red oak and phoenix tail feather, thirteen inches, stiff.

My, that won't do at all.

Red oak and dragon heartstring, eight and a half inches, tough and inflexible.

_Aguamenti._

It seems that there is only one wood that might survive the strength of your soulfire, young prince of Astonia.

Elder and dragon heartstring, eleven inches, hard.

Bravo! However, I must caution you, Elder wands have a rather unpleasant reputation. It would be advisable for you to keep the nature of your wand to yourself.

And for the other customer:

Acacia, I think, or ebony. Acacia would suit your temperament better, but given that ebony is harder and denser, it should cope better with the potency of your soulfire. I would use unicorn hair, but I do not think that you would mesh well with it's nature.

Meteor iron rules out the less potent cores derived from the fae. A hair from the beard of an Eastern Dragon, perhaps? I only have one such wand in stock--the core was bequeathed willingly, it wouldn't have been possible to take one otherwise. Acacia, at the dragon's own suggestion, a more common wood than the other.

Nine inches, unyielding.

A match!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In summary:  
Basil's wand:  
Acacia, Nine inches, unyielding.  
A combination of Falco's feather+powdered meteorite to act as a Flame-to-magic buffer, and a hair from an eastern dragon (near god-like beings) for the magical aspect.
> 
> Bel's wand:  
Elder, eleven inches, hard  
Fire opals from Astonia for the buffer, and dragon heartstring for the core.


	3. Chapter 3

I used a slight misdirection to turn attention away from us while the Sorting commenced, then dispelled it once it was time for Dumbledore to introduce us.

"These are our two exchange students from the Monarchy of Astonia. Introducing Belphegor, its Crown Prince, and Bael." Bel grinned wider. I bowed.

"I trust that you will welcome them with all the hospitality Hogwarts has to offer, and behave as befits students of this ancient institution. As they shall be living with us and experiencing our culture, naturally, they will also be sorted." The genial old man paused, "Now, as I know we are all hungry, and eager for the feast the house elves have painstakingly prepared for us, without further ado, let the Sorting commence!"

"Bael!" Summoned Professor McGonagall.

The Hat was plopped on my head.

_Well, hello young Bael. Interesting mind you have there-OW! Are those mental defenses natural--no--I can see the marks of meddling. Pretty sure I've sorted that particular young eagle, although it seems that young Atheris has eschewed magic for more potent forces._

Such forces are not your concern, lord hat. Though I accept the inevitability of attention from our entrance, I must ask you not to add to the situation.

_Polite one, aren't you? And no need to hide everything, the Headmaster's already briefed me on you and your prince's actual purpose here._

Be as that may, lord hat, please forgive me from upholding the laws and honor of my people.

_Loyal servant, heh? Don't worry, I can't tell anyone about anything I've seen in people's heads, not even the Headmaster, otherwise we'd be short a Dark Lord or two._

I am still discomfited with the invasion of my privacy, lord hat. Would that I came after my prince, so that I would merely follow him without this hassle.

_You are a sharp one, aren't you? Offloading the problem onto your companion while making it gesture of devotion. Ravenclaw or Slytherin, at first glance. But I'm a Sorting Hat. Just because you aren't here to learn doesn't mean I won't do my best to get you a proper education. Now, please let down your shields so I can put you where you belong._

I sighed and took down the first wall.

_I'm not silly, there's a whole lot more in your head than what you've shown me. Honestly, this isn't even a hatstall anymore, it's a hatstop. Please just drop the lot, you've made your point already--and yes, I know about Soulfire, what do you think keeps me running?_

Second to fourth level defenses deactivated. I sighed and dematerialized the hostile landscape.

_Woah, now I'm regretting it. Your memories are traumatizing even at first glance. I'm not looking forward to the one who's actually named after a demon instead of only using it as a cover. Let's see… Mafia? That makes more sense when it comes to assassinating the Dark Lord than the crown prince of an absolute monarchy coming here to do the same. That reaction to the death of that Sky…Is that Discordance I sense? But you are still _ _stable_ _. And straight onto a mission with your prince._

_Alright, disturbing murder, even more disturbing enjoyment and lack of guilt, utter professionalism, fulfilled murder fantasies, uncompromising respect for certain people, dispassionate but unwavering loyalty--you're a twisted individual, but good news, you aren't the sort that can't function in society and becomes a Dark Lord instead._

_And now, paperwork, paperwork, paperwork, the teachers are going to love you--and I mean that unironically. Huh, statistic--psychopath. Now, other defining moments--you actually tagged them? A library…do me a favor and say hi to the books in the restricted section when you visit, won't you? _ _Succubae and Incubi_ _ misses me, I think. Your master gave you an offer in that library, and after that…your mental processes are almost Hufflepuff, but what modern kid takes a hand and immediately changes his self-image to become an apprentice--no, "Apprentice"?_

An apprenticeship is a contract. The apprentice trades service for knowledge, so that it is in the interests of the master to see that the apprentice is well taught, for the apprentice's ability is put to the master's use, therefore, the more well made a tool, the more it is of worth. Of course, should the master or apprentice prove unworthy, be it through lack of strength, lack of tutelage, or lack of learning, the demise of one, the other, or both may dissolve the contract.

_That's just as disturbing as the rest of you. Not even our Dark Families have ever had this sort of mindset. What’s this? AARGH--!_

_…_

_…_

Lord hat?

_Sorry. Your memories were a bit too much for me. Needed a bit of time to process. How are you still so calm?_

I am, as you have seen, the heir of the CEDEF. A poor heir would I be if I was incapable of mustering such mental discipline. Are you quite recovered, lord hat? The drowning was just the beginning. We could proceed without you going through the whole of that particular experience, and there is more to come.

_Nah, I'll manage. What sort of hat would I be if I couldn't?_

I have done my duty in warning you, lord hat. Brace yourself then.

…

…

_You were told to investigate? Investigate the thing that nearly killed you? You actually summoned your attacker? That's not a ghost. Wait. The last wall you let down--that wall's foundations were mental scars from his psychic attack. He attacked you then, which should be--right now. You chose to fight! That battle--! Please, no. No! No more. No more. Please. Please. Nonononononononononononononononononononononononono!_

For your health, lord hat, I insist that you cease.

_Thank you. I suppose that we'll have to forgo looking through that part of you. Anything else I should see?_

That is for you to judge.

_AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! How many entities have a claim on you? Is that a Hell Ring?_

You remain relatively unscathed, lord hat, by the grace of my will. I have spent all my patience, so desist or suffer the consequences.

_Fine, fine, no need to threaten me. But from what I've seen, the desire to succeed, the ambition and pride that made you refuse to be a Guardian, the willingness to sacrifice to acquire power, the ability to deceive and manipulate in order to achieve your goals means that you'd better be_

**SLYTHERIN!**

_And get me off this head!_

I stepped back to let Bel be Sorted.


	4. Chapter 4

Ron's leg was jiggling impatiently as he watched the androgynous, oddly dressed Bael sit under the hat. "It's taking a bit long, innit?"

Hermione sighed and slapped his leg. "They aren't First Years, Ron. We become more complex as we grow up, which means that the hat needs to take longer to weigh which House suits us best. It's very possible that both of the two exchange students will be hatstalls, it's only _expected_ for people their age!"

"Dumbledore said that they're from Astonia, didn't he? Where's that? " The third of their trio had not taken his eyes off the two exchange students, and recalling his occasional Sunday school lessons with the Dursleys, "Also, their names are a bit, well, Biblical."

Hermione huffed at her companion's ignorance, "That's part of Astonia's culture, Harry. Astonia is one of the last absolute monarchies in the world and rumored to practice dark magic. The royal family always produce twins. One twin is named after an angel, the other after a demon. The two are expected to vie for the throne. It's bloody, brutal and barbaric, with the end being one prince dead and the other made the crown prince, and the identity of the victor is supposed to prophesy what sort of rule Astonia ends under. But the royal family's main line's supposed to be dead, the whole castle was massacred and lost to a fire, leaving a branch line to rule--although the fire did mean that it was impossible to recover all the bodies, so I suppose a prince could have survived--that doesn't explain Bael though."

"Bael seems pretty normal." Ron observed, "Might pretty for a bloke, or is he a girl?"

Harry stared at his best friend, "Uh, Ron, the hat just started trembling--and your eyesight is better than mine, so, is the hat catching fire?"

"Uh, yeah, Harry. It's blue and gives me shivers looking at it. Wait, it's gone now." Ron blinked, "Sorry, Hermione, you were saying?"

While Hermione was tempted to scold him, the lure of sharing knowledge was too great, so she continued, "Well, Bael is a different way to say Ba'al, which means lord, and has been applied numerous gods in Hebrew scripture, including _baʿal-pəʿōr_, Latinized to Belphegor. So, while Baal is considered a demon in most occult books, put next to Belphegor, Bael's name seems to be an in-joke signifying _something_\--"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"He--is he a he or a she?--doesn't look like a Slytherin though." Ron commented, "He's got none of the Ferret's smarminess, and he doesn't look like he's got Troll blood in him either."

"Honestly, Ron, don't stereotype. Slytherins aren't divided into Malfoys and Crabbe and Goyles, Bael can be a Slytherin even if they don't fit into those two molds--and speaking of that, you should ask Bael instead of assuming that they're male or female."

Harry glanced over at the Slytherin table, "I don't know, Hermione, I mean, Slytherins do seem to be divided into people like Malfoy and Greengrass and people like Crabbe, Goyle, and Millicent Bulstrode. Bael looks soft, harmless, and not exactly Malfoy-ish." The teenager winced, "On the other hand, the hat did catch fire while they were wearing it."

"Shush! Belphegor's being sorted right now--is the hat trying to _cringe away_?"

"OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF HIS HEAD! I DON'T CARE, I'M NOT TOUCHING THAT NIGHTMARE ANYMORE! OFF TO GRYFFINDOR WITH YOU, AND I WANT A DEEP-CLEAN RIGHT THIS INSTANT, I'M NOT SUITED TO THIS! FIRST THAT @#$^%^&%^, NOW THIS #*(%_~~>?., I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE NEAR ONE OF THOSE HEADS FOR LOVE OR FOR MONEY EVER AGAIN! OFF! OFF! OFF!

Harry broke the awkward silence. "You know, Hermione, I think that going against stereotypes really doesn't cut it this time."


	5. Chapter 5

I followed Bel to the table decked in red and gold, and sat down to his right, facing Harry Potter. As one could probably guess, Bel wasn't the one who started introductions. Normally, that would be because of his unique personality, but the current circumstances meant that I had to put the kilograms of Astonian Court Etiquette books to practice. So, as my prince's page, I coughed delicately and stuttering on my first word, announced, "Thou-You sit before Crown Prince Belphegor, Victor of the Sacred Strife, He Who Shall Be The Thirty-First King Of Astonia, And Ruby Madness Upon Her."

I paused for long enough to indicate the end of my speech, then relaxed and waved, "You can call me Bael, by the way."

The bushy-haired girl, Hermione Granger, narrowed her eyes at my second statement. So she noticed the wording. Before she could speak, freckled ginger shoved himself in front and demanded, "Are you a guy or a girl?"

Granted, the livery I was wearing did hide my gender (a long-standing tradition in Astonia involving assassinations, forbidden romances and taxes). Still, I shot him an offended look as Bel answered, "The Page is a _boy_."

Food appeared in front of us. Roasts of all sorts and the pies Britain was famous for. Pumpkin juice, an odd drink that tasted nicer than one would expect, and an acceptable amount of vegetables. Conversation was somewhat stifled by teenagers shoveling food down their throats, but questions did not cease.

"You're a Slytherin, why're you sitting with us?"

"I follow my prince, and there has been no rule made to forbid it."

"What's it like being an actual prince?"

"Ushishishi, wouldn't you like to know, peasant?"

"Why are your bangs so long, can you even see?--hey! No need to threaten me with a knife!"

"Why're you here, anyways?"

"The Prince was beseeched to come, so he deigns to grace you peasants with his presence--"

"--I trust my prince to have the creativity not to use 'peasant' in every sentence."

"Did you read the news? About Dumbledore going senile and Potter being a nutter?"

"Ushishishi. Should the Prince condescend to reading foreign peasants' papers, he would choose something less obviously biased."

"And incompetent to boot." I added spitefully.

Bel giggled, "Shishishi, the Page found a run-on sentence in _The Prophet_ and still hasn't forgiven it! But the Prince won't dirty his hands with trashy puppets that aren't his own." He paused and ate a slice of the still red center of his meat consideringly, "The Prince might kill the peasants anyway." Red juice stained his chin. I pulled a mundane magic trick and produced a napkin out of thin air.

His implication of support seemed to go over well with Mister Potter. Or maybe not. His trio of friends were absorbed in their own conversation with the Gryffindor ghost, but at least miss Granger caught it.

"I assume I am still allowed to enjoy the use of whichever words I like, even if the pleasures of eating and drinking are denied me! But I am quite used to students poking fun at my death, I assure you!"

Annnd...That was my cue.

"Excuse me," I interrupted politely, "I couldn't help but overhear. With your permission, Sir Nicholas, I would attempt to help you with that."

The ghost blinked, "Surely that's impossible, young Bael."

I inclined my head, "And yet, good sir, there is no harm in trying."

Sir Nicholas sighed, "Well, it certainly can't hurt, and would be significantly more welcome than suffering the insults of the ruder students that pass through these halls."

Excellent, a ghost volunteering to be my test subject for genjutsu. Mammon had not successfully managed to alter the perception of a ghost during the time when Atheris had attended Hogwarts, but unlike Atheris, I was Flame Active, and had a Hell Ring (albeit not the Osseo Impressione), experience with death, and excellent peers and teachers. _Spades_ of them, one might say.

I pulled out the acacia, dragon beard, meteor iron and Falco feather contraption that was apparently my wand, and let unseen Mist Flames run down the length. The base of the genjutsu I was using was a very simple trick most Kiri genjutsu users learnt to make ration bars more palatable, or to disguise the taste of poison. It was a matter of affecting the lifeless, fleshless spirit before me that was the problem. From prior reports, I knew that spirits could be affected by the world, as evidenced by the petrification of the very ghost before me. And well, I was Basil, which was close enough to basilisk as far as I was concerned, so I sketched out the seal-script for "feel" with the tip of my wand and used the seal to read the tastes of the food from the minds of the living, and allow the ghost to perceive them. The complicated part was making the genjutsu interactive enough that I didn't have to micromanage so that Sir Nicholas wouldn't taste shepherd's pie when he went for kidney. His memories and expectations from life would help fill in the blanks when it came to texture and chewing.

"If you would attempt to taste, Sir Nicholas?" I requested politely.

He passed his mouth through the food. His eyes widened, "By Jove! I can taste it!"

So yes, I can cast genjutsu on ghosts. I smiled at him and suggested, "Try chewing and swallowing, sir."

There were actual tears in his eyes when he found that it was possible. Stepping out from the table, he bowed and clasped his arm to his chest, "I owe you a great debt, young page. Should you have any need, call upon the name of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, and upon my honor, I shall do my utmost to see it done."

I was equally solemn in acceptance, but then I turned practical and filled a plate with a bite of each dish. "I imagine it would be less discomfiting for all and sundry for you to eat from a plate, and not chew at the dishes." I explained sensibly.

"That's not possible!" Exclaimed Miss Granger, breaking the silence, "Ghosts are by nature stagnant at the moment of their deaths and frozen in an in-between state that is far lesser than life, therefore incapable of perceiving pleasure!"

"Believed impossible perhaps, by those who scribed such studies." I shrugged, but I wasn't even corporalizing a ghost. That required a far more blatant use of Mist Flames and while I wasn't intending to blend in, neither was I stupid enough to show my cards, so instead, I said, "Yet I am servant of the Royal House of Astonia, and no servant of the House worth the name could allow a fellow guest to go hungry." There Bel, got you your opening. Stop holding court and focus on the mission.

"The Page is superior." Bel proclaimed proudly. And that was not what you should have said, my prince, _please_. Luckily, civilians could be relied upon to be curious, so…

"Why did you choose to come this year even though Voldemort's back?" Asked Miss Granger, "It seems to be quite an unreasonable risk."

"Shishishi. For peasants." Bel sneered, "Princes are different, and so are Pages. Dark Lords still aren't Royalty." ...Was he substituting "Quality" with "Royalty"?

"So you believe that Voldemort's back?" Mister Potter--right, I should probably start referring to him as Harry to encourage closeness.

"Evidently." I said mildly, "Or at least someone impersonating him quite successfully."

"Hang on--impersonating?"

"The current Voldemort's true identity has yet to be confirmed, but given that the Ministry's Mouthpiece has clearly been exerting significant effort to discredit you, it is only reasonable to assume that they have a motive, namely that there is something they wish to conceal." I helped myself to apple pie and ice cream. "'twas done with little finesse, but what more can you expect out of--?"

I waved my hand to imply the evils of a demagogical democracy with the lazy antipathy of someone who grew up and held power in a military oligarchy and was growing up and holding power in a criminal organization while dating the heir of an absolute monarchy.

* * *

Dinner done, the start-of-term notices began, only for Professor Dumbledore to be interrupted by an _eyesore_ of a woman. Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, subject to a rather high Goblin Nations bounty. I could fund an effort to clean up marine microplastics, and maybe get some more writing sets with the money. It wouldn't be hard to kill her, the only problem was discretion, given that the terms of the primary contract with Albus Dumbledore stipulated that we would prioritize the sanctity of the school and the safety of the inhabitants, and a ministry official's death in connection with the school would do our employer no favors.

Then she spoke. Divinities above, Sage, Shodai, and Kaguya, what was that noise? Bel was affected worse, given that he was actually his age, didn't have Rain flames to dampen the sound, and wasn't that self-disciplined anyway.

I was aware of him twitching towards his knives, but there was a mission. Normally, Bel was the one who draped himself over me, but this time, I wrapped my arms about him and rested my weight against his.

"That woman is a travesty." I murmured, "But no one is unsightly in death. We could choke her, shove her bow down her throat, watch as she scrabbles, see her tears stream down her face and the paints she wears wash away."

Bel realized what I was doing, so drawing me closer, he whispered into my ear, "We could smother her with her cardigan."

I continued the train of thought, caressing each syllable, "Feel her writhe and struggle in futility, ride out the waves and undulation, then lift up that spit-soaked wool, and unwrap her twisted death mask."

"But the page forgets the crucial thing." He said, tone now playful as sharp nails poked at the soft skin of my neck, "There is no blood, no glorious crimson."

I answered as if in a dream, "Then burn her with these candles bright, see her skin blister, hear her eyes pop and bubble and boil. Revel in her screams."

"Smell the fragrance of roasting meet, the malodor of charred flesh. Listen to the plink plink plink of juices dripping," My Prince stroked my hair, "while forks and spoons and knives lie aplenty."

"Blunter than ours." I added softly, "But the better to cause pain. Suffer her shrieks and toast to her terror. Shove a fork into her trachea, dye putrid pink bold scarlet and carmine."

"Scoop her eyes away with a spoon, cut her throat and run our fingers through the bright spurts from her arteries and the glug of sluggish blood from her veins." Bel nuzzled me before speaking again, "Draw designs on her twisted features, scour false powder with gore, daub it on her ugly features, turn dull sickening skin brilliant copper."

"Blimey! That's creepy." Ron stared at us, "I don't blame you though, anything's easier to deal with than that, but that was like two Wampuses grooming each other after a kill, and I'm going to get nightmares."

Well, I could defuse the situation, but I had things to settle and chocolate ice-cream to hide. So I rose and bowed, "I leave you now my Prince."

Given the crowds, it was easy to affect a disappearing act, so I managed to remain unseen all the way into the Slytherin common rooms.

And woe to me, it was time for a dominance display.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm intending to do a Daemon Spade arc in the future for _With all due respect sir (meaning none)_, after the Massimo arc, Halloween special, and Christmas arc. Also, you'll be seeing Mukuro possessing Archimedes the Owl next chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just an exercise in purple prose at this point.

As one can expect of the bourgeoise, the moment the children were bereft of adult supervision, they began establishing a pecking order. Ah. Pardon me, such rudeness is--ugh, wearing formal clothes brought out the politician side of me. Anyway, as a foreign element, I was again, the focus of attention. It probably didn’t help that I, unlike good purebloods, sat with those of less exalted lineage and strongly despised association, i.e. Gryffindors. On the other hand, I didn't care. Kiri was the end result of a peasant rebellion, so down with the aristocracy! And as Page of Crown Prince Belphegor, Victor of the Sacred Strife, He Who Shall Be The Thirty-First King Of Astonia, And Ruby Madness Upon Her, I most certainly did not care for Foreign Peasants' Backwards Customs.

Sadly, dominance displays are an inevitable part of school life. For the sake of efficiency, I chose the easy option and targeted the ringleader, who, luckily enough, was taunting me. Now, how does a young lad of one-and-ten successfully intimidate the young master of a Most Ancient and Noble House? Creepiness.

Here's a trick my brother learned to manage his lack of height. Don't stand up, you'll just look even more ridiculously short that way. Besides, why stand when you can relax on the Slytherin Common Room's comfy, comfy couches? Leaning back, I replied to Draco Malfoy's accusations regarding my allegiance, "I am my prince's page, his as he is mine. His will is our will, my power ours. Who are you to question me?"

The blond civilian sputtered, "I am _Draco Malfoy_! Do you know who my father is? Who are _you_ to insult me?"

My adoptive father's favorite insult, in the life when I was a whisper of a nightmare, was a form phrase that could be easily modified for any and all situations: How far has the** insert quality** of **insert subject of insult** fallen.

"How far has the education of the so-called Noble Houses fallen." I began, softly, lazily, "I say fallen, but how can one fall if one has never achieved any distinction, has never risen to a height from which to fall? For all you claim your House to be Most Ancient and Noble, what is it but an ant before an oak? Do you not know that a page is a blue-blooded child, sent to serve a lord, and in turn learn the complexities of court under his aegis, no more a mere fellahin than any other above the salt? A page am I, last of a lineage so great that even made dilute, this scion of it scorns to set foot amongst you peasant rabble. Do not insult what is beyond your comprehension, false lordling."

To be honest, I was just making it up as I went, mostly because the 666 would ensure the most hilariously inconvenient interpretation of any cover I offered. Besides, given that sir was yodeling my fictional origins at the top of his lungs, I might as well own the story.

Propping my chin up with an arm on a knee, I continued, "Your family names itself after constellations, does it not? How very fitting. As the lights we see in the night sky are birthed from infernos long-since turned to ash, the illusion of brilliance that is in truth long-extinguished, so are you and your kin false mirages of glory that, if ever present, has long since declined to mere glitz to dazzle the hoi polloi."

I knew the chiaroscuro of green-tinged light and dark shadows created a particularly eerie effect, so I bared my teeth a smile and finished, "A third of the stars in heaven fell alongside my paterfamilias."


	7. Chapter 7

By the time everyone awoke, I had become an afterthought, and so, as an irrelevant body among many, I drifted along with flow, into the Great Hall and to the Slytherin table.

Breakfast was another set of problems entirely. I sat down close enough to Malfoy to eavesdrop, then managed to remain out of mind until the owls came. A particularly large barn owl with heterochromatic eyes settled itself in front of me.

"Breakfast." Demanded Mukuro.

"Message first." I refused calmly, helping myself to baked beans and bacon. Mukuro then had the audacity to peck at my plate. I retaliated with a fork to his head, which he barely avoided.

"Given that I have just flown my way across the Chanel, I do not have the energy to remember and regurgitate the message. Breakfast. First."

"You have the strength to negotiate." I pointed out dryly. "Message. Now."

"Breakfast."

"Message."

Mukuro flopped onto his back, "Kufufufu. Woe onto me--behold, your cruelty has left me dead of starvation and the message is now lost."

His theatrics drew the attention of my tablemates.

"Is your owl alright, Bael?"

"I am not alright!" Mukuro sulked, "I have braved storm and sea to bring news to this ungrateful creature, and am denied even the most basic of sustenance!"

"Your owl talks? I was not aware that owls could talk."

"Most owls can not." I absentmindedly sealed the Mist Portal sneakily forming under my bacon, "My owl is not most owls. Sadly. The message, now."

"Breakfast."

"Wouldn't it be easier if you just gave him something to eat, Bael?" Daphne Greengrass asked, already spearing a slice of bacon with a spare fork in anticipation of my agreement.

"Yes." I answered, "However, it is a matter of principle to not negotiate with hostage takers. The message."

"Here." Daphne gave Mukuro her bacon. At my betrayed expression, she sighed. "The stalemate wasn't going anywhere, Bael. I'm a third party, so you didn't capitulate and your owl got his food. You can get the message now."

Mukuro bowed at the girl. "You have my thanks, fair lady." He turned to me, crossed his wings, and said, "Now, as the lovely lady has been so kind as to help you save face, here is what you need to hear, "From the thorny siblings, greetings, school is very annoying, and old buzz is even worse. On the bright side, Demon number one is having lots of fun with haunted houses, and she's occasionally asked to assist, so the school year isn't all that bad. Same old, same old with the spice cabinet, though someone is experimenting with miso again. He actually managed to not make the cold soup worse, but the cook isn't going to let him heat it beyond lukewarm, lest he burns it again. As to normal chowder… lets just say that someone needs to reduce the amount of fat in the recipe, its revolting. But otherwise normal. Also, tell the bloody prince that I'm going to turn him into a frog and throw him down a well if he continues writing messages in blood."

Translation: Hayato was still with Shamal, Bianchi was freelancing and occasionally partnered with Reborn-san while he cleaned house. CEDEF was unchanged, though sir had visited home and was working on helping the young master recover from the after effects of sealing. Vongola was unsupportive of Massimo, as usual, but they weren't going to bother taking action until his brother had married and moved into the America to live with his wife and was officially out of succession. We were discouraged from lethal force for the time being.

"Thank you." I produced the chocolate ice-cream from yesterday. "And here's the reason you should have listened to me."

I jabbed it with my wand. It melted.

"Seriously?" Mukuro protested, "You planned this from the start?"

"Anticipated, yes. Planned, no." I snorted, "It was supposed to be a prize for the winner. But since you decided to accept a third party, neither of us can have it."

"Nooo." Mukuro deadpanned.

Despite having an owl's body, he managed to frown as he checked the height of the sun. "Well. I'll be off."

Bowing to Daphne, he hooted a parting, "Archimedes, at your service. Until next time, fair lady."

Then he flapped off.

I examined her face carefully. No blush. Good. Contemplative interest. Bad. Attention turned elsewhere. Good. A nudge of Mist had her putting the conversation to the back of her mind as we received our schedules.

Then it struck me. School. For the third time. I wanted to go back to bed already.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Severus Snape meets his match in politely and positively oblivious students, and the scandal of mathematics being an elective seems to have flown over the heads of wizard-kind. In other words, growing up in Chigiri no Sato has left Basil with a very warped sense of educational quality, and Bel's a genius who's bored in Arithmancy. Also, Snape is very subtly suffering because of Bael's lack of last name: How is he supposed to be distant and contemptuous if he only has a choice between overfamiliarity and an honorific?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses apart from the fact that I don't have any clear idea of what I want either. Prepare for terribly out of characterness. I don't even know anymore.

"Sir Professor." Wonderful, his particular irritation had decided to skive off class again. And there was that irritating speech quirk, which he would have assumed to be some inexplicable affectation were it not for the thoughtless constancy with which the brat used "Sir Professor", "Madame Professor", and, for the toad, "woman".

"Yes, mister Bael?"

"I have revised my analysis of the interactions of ingredients that together produce the Boil-curing potion we have been taught after your corrections, and furthermore, have pursued extracurricular research in the avenues you suggested, but there are certain contradictions in the books you indicated, for instance, the differing uses of Monkshood called Wolfsbane, which is aconite to others. I have put the results of both results down in writing, and have turned it in with my homework. However, in the course of my perusal of the Hogwarts Library, a worrying lack of information on the virtues of the male yellow and gall of lead, cinnabar and mercury used in combination with magic has been revealed--are there geographical and cultural influences on the effects of potions ingredients?"

The potions professor sighed, "While I appreciate your interest in the subject, mister Bael, I must express my concern at your fixation upon all things lethal, be it the methods by which they may be transformed or their uses elsewise. Although I acknowledge that cultural differences may mean that you do not find discussion of radiation poisoning and its treatment in consideration of magic to be at all incongruous, I should hope that frank conversation of the applications of such would still be clearly inacceptable."

The boy inclined his head politely, "I am well-versed in  mundane  poisons and their treatment. Less so in the magical sort--there seems little point in using Moonseed when plain arsenic would do just as well. Thallium, a variety of non-magical fungi, certain fermentations of grain that produce toxins, adequate doses of untreated cassava, monkshood, as I have mentioned before, the fair beads of mutual missing that others call the rosary pea,  Devil's Snare, referring to the muggle plant and not its magical namesake, which can also be used as a anesthetic when prepared properly--all function against wizard-kind, and are less likely to be detected besides. As a result, my thoughts turn to them when undirected elsewhere, and I have never found it taboo to speak of mere theory. "

"Are you aware that this is considered dark magic?" Oh Merlin, this was worse than Nott, Malfoy, and the like because this brat might actually succeed in making use of his less-than-inaccurate knowledge, if his competence in potion-making was any indication.

The boy cocked his head, "How so? I wield no power. I merely grind and weigh and mix. If it can not even be argued that I am using magic, how can I be accused of wielding the darker arts?"

"Mister Bael, while I am very well aware," He punctuated his sentence by slamming the drawer of his desk shut, "that you are in the unique position of being a diplomatic representative on foreign soil, it is in very poor taste to flaunt your status regarding capital crimes. I will not pretend to understand your puerile desire to be 'dark', 'amoral', 'ruthless' or whatever poorly defined term you have chosen in an attempt to feel unique and mature. It is pitiful, and I expect better from a member of my House, no matter how short your stay here will be."

"My regrets for the impropriety, Sir Professor." The brat did look mildly chastised, inclining his head in apology, "And my thanks for your instruction. The Headmaster suggested that I seek your counsel regarding matters of mental warfare, therefore must I inconvenience you longer."

What had Dumbledore gotten him into now? The arts of Occlumency and Legilimency were not for children, and no matter how much the boy before him pretended at adulthood, he would be better off not learning. "The Headmaster." He said, nostrils flaring as he did his best to project disgust and dislike, "Is a perfectly accomplished Legilimens himself, and given his diminishing influence in the Wizengamot, he has perfectly adequate amounts of time to spend tutoring you. Unlike him, I have an extraordinary amount of work, most of it time-sensitive, and more relevantly, this is not your home, the rules of the school are to be followed, and while I am sure your whims are not questioned back home, you are required to be in class at this moment, not bothering me with questions about things you do not understand."

"I have accomplished all that is intended to be achieved in Dolores Umbridge's class period that I find acceptable." The boy answered pleasantly, peacefully making eye contact with him, either extraordinarily ignorant or extraordinarily foolish, "She is no teacher, and thus has no authority over me as a student, Sir Professor. Any more time spent there will only be at my Prince's pleasure. If I am taking up your time, may I be offered the chance to recompense you? I am well capable of busywork, and will consent to you ascertaining the quality of it."

He noted the juxtaposition of "she is no teacher" and "Sir Professor". Denying one authority, confirming another's, delivered with some degree of skill, excellent, nearly inspired manipulation. But would the brat just take the hint and get out?

Apparently not, if the respectfully patient stance the brat had taken was any indication.

"Is there anything I can do to make you leave?" He hissed.

The brat was unruffled, "Pardon my impudence , Sir Professor. What you teach is of the greatest value to my Prince and my purpose, thus by nature of coming here to learn, I must stay and  attempt to acquire that knowledge." He smiled lightly, "It is, without a doubt, a better use of my time than enduring the presence of Dolores Umbridge."

"Occlumency is not for the faint of heart or weak of mind." He warned in a last ditch attempt, "You have no need of it, and I doubt you have the ability for it. I will not teach you just because you asked me due to some juvenile sense of curiosity."

"I am curious." The boy admitted evenly, "But more than that, I recognize the necessity of learning, and therefore am willing to exert myself for its sake. Addressing the availability of the Headmaster: I would rather learn from my Head of House, whose skill is known to be greater."

He glared upwards in annoyance, then, without warning, caught the boy's unguarded gaze and attacked.

There were defenses. Walls and mazes and obscuring mists, currents and storms and lightless depths. Imagery and metaphor were adequate defenses for some, however, they fared against direct attacks best. And more, they were reactionary. Instead, he threw a lure of shock and fear, and it drew up fragments of memory.

cold blue light\--frostbite\--burns--cuts--scrapes--blankeyes--burningstoma--poison\--pink-turned-red\---nufufu\--can'tgetitoff.

Walls of water came rushing in. He allowed them to wash him onto the outer shore that was no longer the boy's mind.

"That is how I teach." He said coldly, "Do you still want to learn?"

"Yes." Replied the boy with a small smile, genuinely joyful, albeit reserved, "Thank you for the opportunity."

Bael bowed briefly, then retrieved a notebook and fountain pen.

"On your head be it." He muttered darkly.

The brat was still smiling. With heartfelt happiness at that. He probably didn't even need training, no one could fathom that sort of insanity.

* * *

Bored. Bored. Triple bored. The Prince was bored to death--the death of others', of course, but death nonetheless. Trigonometry. Boring. Who thought in terms of ideal materials? Lazy. No use to his Page's gift, all tensile strength and odd angles, cutting and tying, leading sharpness and being lead. Ink. How pedestrian. Wood-char and lampblack. Ugly things to describe the airy beauty of vectors.

Mere addition, values like droplets of blood pooling into a sum of crimson, falling into place in his mind as soon as he perceived it. Pitiful peasants too lowly mired in mud, unable to raise their eyes to the complex and the abstract, failing to piece together fragments found as they scrabbled in the dust. Useless meagre mockable things.

He was bored. Bored was bad. The Page was so cruel to abandon him to boredom. The less-peasant-than-most professor had set the Prince her most difficult works, but they were boring. Who needed spells that tried to wear away to a final result, dull and ugly as grinding and sawing at bone when those changes and those alterations and that particular equation would sublimate it so beautifully into its final shape like the blade that slipped into joints, parted ligaments, sectioning bone and flesh with such simple ease?

Bored. Such intolerable tedium! Explaining to peasant knaves was terrible. They were slow and dull like long-rusted knives, he had catalogued every exit and every unlikely weapon, found the pattern of the air currents and saw in all their forms the faint silver brushstrokes that pushed the clouds outside. If he wished to kill these little creatures he would throw handful of knives--three or four, he thinks, about the lampholder in the wall, it would hold if the wire looped about it five times or more, then if the peasants were not afraid enough to move he would add another trap about the door, lines crisscrossing, beginning from the upper right corner with two knives sunk into the bookshelf as an anchor, redirected at an angle of 0.4π  through another two knives sunk into the coat rack on the wall…

The Prince sighed and took up his quill again. What had that insufferable pink puddle said to him? Alas, proper threats required effort. What laws had the toad broken?

Rudeness. Certainly. Annoying the royal Heir. Presuming to command the Crown Prince. Being Loud. Being a Disturbance. Something about speaking ill of the Prince, his Page would cite the precise laws for him when he asked. Having a terrible voice. No, not a crime unless she sang. There was a spell for that. They weren't allowed to kill faculty members but the Prince wanted death. Looking down upon Royal Blood. But she was short. Could he claim that? Oh well, the Page could manage the details. What else? Oh yes, failing to acknowledge the Prince's protection regarding his Own. Now for the fun part: sentencing! Blood, screams, suffering! Stabs and scours and slashings!

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's weird how boringly strange Basil is once you take away the internal monologue.  
Please, tell me what you want to see. I need inspiration.


	9. Chapter 9

### Chapter Text

"Blibbering Humdingers don't eat Simpering Sugarplums."

I sketched a shallow bow, "Goodfellow Luna."

"Hello Bael." She smiled dreamily, barefoot and dressed in wrinkled robes, "It seems silly to use another name, like calling a Dabberblimp a Gulping Plimpy."

"Not at all silly." I pointed out, "My name is yet mine, as my bag is mine and my books are mine."

"That is reasonable." She agreed, "Pindt oaks secrete poison and explosive ashcals that summon wibbering fudges. Lots of problems will come from it."

"Can you be more specific?" I asked carefully.

She looked at me from behind Sharingan-patterned glasses, "You know what happens when people are afraid for their power, Bael. And wibbering fudges congeal very quickly, you know."

"Soon after they are finished cooking?"

"Yes, of course!" Luna smiled. So, Fudge had been set in his ways for quite a long time, which, fortunately enough, meant that I could easily extrapolate his reaction from precedent. Preferably the most recent years, and given the frequency of drama occurring about Harry Potter, I assumed that I would have a plethora of useful data.

"Thank you, Luna." I said sincerely, joining her on her way to the third floor. "You are very wise—I would enjoy working with you."

"And you see clearly through air and water—I'd be quite glad to work with someone! No one has asked me to be their partner before!" She held up a squat tin box, "Slippering Sardine?"

First the air and water, now small fish… I eyed her suspiciously as I accepted one of the sleek silvery fish, attached to (what I presumed to be) a slipper ring. It was very tasty, not too salted and with the sweetness of fresh catch. My only complaint was that it was even more slippery than its name suggested, sliding down my throat without allowing me to savor the flavors—were it not for the slipper-ring, I would have found it slipping into my gullet whole.

"Another?" Luna asked, just as we stepped apart, neatly in sync, to avoid a pair of shoes falling onto our heads, "They're a favorite of Woeful Wasservögel. And thank you for your help as well!"

She gave me the tin and bent down to put on her shoes.

… That had been stranger than I had anticipated.

* * *

Despite portents of doom, my Prince and I would be proceeding with our plans. It was, after all, stipulated by our contract (in word, though not in spirit): We were to protect inhabitants of the school from harm, be it to mind or to flesh—exposure to Umbridge was both.

We had never gone to her classes, so there was a bit of trouble finding two desks and pacifying Bel's classmates. My Prince had claimed Exchange Student Privilege and State Immunity, and while I did keep my head down, my lack of presence did make Umbridge quite incapable of telling whether I had ever been present. To be honest, I wasn't sure she would remember that I existed, had I not made a point of denying her the title of professor at every opportunity.

It would change today. My Prince had decreed that she would fall, for he wished it, and for she had harmed those he was fond of—Harry Potter, for one, and also his chess partner and arithmancy workmate. I would see Dolores Umbridge cast down upon her face into the dust and stripped of any authority she possessed, had I my way (dereliction of duty, breaking of contracts, the theft of the title of teacher… those were all things I was extremely tetchy about). Granted, the Headmaster's request for protection of the castle and its people included her, so we could not truly harm her—but that wasn't the point of this little show: as much as my every instinct railed against it, my Prince and I were going to make ourselves a far more interesting subject of conversation than the sanity of Harry Potter.

* * *

Habit had me lightly dozing on Bel's shoulder, which was very warm, albeit bony. I hazily registered the click-click of Umbridge's entrance, and her command of wands away and books out. I forced my presence into being—it was like holding one's breath. Bel nuzzled me affectionately, sensing the change, then let out long, half-hushed giggle.

A pause. Then a few clicks in a semi-irregular pattern—she had noticed us.

"Mister Belphegor." She said, sickly sweet, "I believe that the young manbeside you is in the wrong classroom, and both of you are violating school dress codes. Not to mention your poor posture—is this how young wizards should comport themselves in public?"

Bel giggled, a more mocking sound than the first. "Ushishishi. Peasant. Are you trying to order the Prince about?"

I opened my eyes and moved back to my own desk, resting my head on folded arms.

"Don't be silly, mister Belphegor!" Umbridge tutted, "You are just a student of Hogwarts, same as all of your classmates! As a student in my classroom, you must listen to your teacher. Now, say 'sorry, professor Umbridge', and we'll have none of your childishness!"

"Sorry?" Bel laughed, "For what? Pelican daughter of a Canker-blossom father! Thou speakst to me of learning and comportment, horn-mad Malkin?"

Bel was adopting my speech patterns, which was quite heartwarming.

Our classmates spectated warily, heads twisted at whatever angle necessary to keep an eye on the brewing conflict while still being able to spin around and pretend nothing had happened.

"Mister Belphegor!" Umbridge snapped, "This behavior is unacceptable! I will be understanding this time, given your foreign status, but take out your book, put away your wand, and sit up straight!"

"A useless book." Bel yawned, "The Prince will not sully his eyes with lies and rubbish. Where are the citations? Where is the peer review? Where are the measures that distinguish verifiable truth from made up fairy-tales? Such words are unworthy of the paper they are printed on. Is it a manual, or the espousal of a philosophy?"

How fascinating. With her temper, Umbridge was puffing up like a bullfrog. Luna had compared Fudge to one once too—maybe they could be considered mates? From what I perceived, no, however, that did not stop me from speculating on the effects of poking her with a pin. Bel's influence, I know. And she, in her indignation, defended her text with pitiful declarations.

"You avoid the subject." I cut in coolly, and my Prince ceded the stage to me, on the grounds of me having actually read the book through. "Slinkhard provides no effective instruction in practical applications of defensive magic, or defense in general, and extremely lacking definitions for the terms he uses. His instructions of negotiation are an exercise in fantasy: would a wolf cease to attack an unresisting sheep? Or a cat let live a pacifist mouse? His beliefs in surrender—those of one living in an ivory tower. Were I of a less forgiving nature, I would accuse you of sabotage."

I saw eyes widen behind Umbridge's back, as well as in reflections.

"Sabotage! Young man, how dare you accuse the Ministry of such a thing! You should count yourself quite fortunate that you have come to visit Hogwarts this year, when the Ministry is finally taking a firm hand to the education the education of its young witches and wizards! Sabotage—we are doing the exact opposite! And what is this about Mister Slinkhard? I assure you, he is an experienced consultant for the Auror office! He knows far better than you about the need for practical defensive magic!"

"If so." I sat up and looked at her with wide, sincere eyes, "Then we must weep for those brave souls, defending us all though their eyes blinded, their ears deafened, and their strength crippled. Such brave souls! Making of their lives and bodies a shield between us and danger! Weakened, untrained, and yet willing to die so we may live! How many have so fallen, Dolores Umbridge, so that gold may be put in Mister Slinkhard's coffers? A smorgasbord on his tables? Silk and velvet in his closets? Let us honor them, worthy souls all, who were taught to turn the other cheek: Clementine Miranda Mabel, her eyes lost to a curse; Algernon Ezra Barden deafened from an explosion; Orla Eleanor Doune, now silenced forevermore by poison."

A gasp from behind me, to the right. Good, I had chosen well. The three had family in Hogwarts at the moment.

"Though the Prince respects such courage." Bel agreed with me solemnly, "He does prefer to live, and live well. And you, waggish dogfish, are attempting to make him suffer the opposite."

"How many have fallen, Dolores Umbridge?" I asked again, "How, and why?" I felt a bit guilty about my rhetoric. Slinkhard could be a perfectly decent if rather too idealistic pacifist, but I was implying his culpability in the casualties to force Umbridge's hand. She could either admit that Slinkhard wasn't as much of an authority on defensive matters as she claimed, or that Slinkhard (and by extension, his employers) was responsible for the Auror casualties. Deception or poor judgement. Which?

"That is not your concern, young man!" She pasted a smile on her face, "You are safe! You do not need to learn practical defensive magic! There is no dark lord around to threaten your lives!"

I scented blood. She was nervous.

Bel clutched his stomach in a violent fit of giggles, "Ushishishishi! Safe? Stupid civilian! Danger and death come from all sides! Peace is fleeting, strife eternal! Blood will always be spilled and the defenseless killed! Peace is won and forged. Fought for, struggled for, guarded vigilantly. Stopping one's ears does not stop the bell from ringing, holding one's nose does not stop the midden from stinking, hiding one's head beneath the sand does not protect one from the danger. _You do your students harm_. You are an unrepentant liar—do you think that the Prince is ever free from attacks on his Royal Person?"

A dark-skinned girl with close-cropped hair looked in sudden horrified comprehension at the faint scars both my prince and I bore. Furious whispering broke out. I gave it no heed, and stood to bow exaggeratedly at my foe, "And now comes a tally of your crimes. In the name of the Exalted Crown Profane, I charge thee: first, the slander of royalty, the sentence of which would be the branding of the tongue; second, the intent to harm royalty, the sentence of which would be hanging, drawing, and quartering; third, the unjust vexation of royalty, the sentence of which would be a tarring and feathering. Alas, you are no subject of the Astonian Crown, though by the laws of this land you are also remiss in your duties." I grinned, then pulled up a leather-bound, yellowing book, "For instance, failing to ensure all men of sixteen and above are in practice with their longbows. Or," I flipped to another page, "Falsifying Heraldry, half-blood daughter of no house. Oford Umbridge, your father, was little more than a servant, was he not?"

Bel smirked at my side, "A line of frogs will never hatch a dragon, no matter how long it stretches, toad-peasant. Lying will not elevate your station."

I clapped my hands together cheerfully, "And now, fellow students, here is the question: Having shown herself a liar, an incompetent, and an annoyance to boot, is there any reason to attend her classes or respect her authority? So long as Dolores Umbridge, who is not a professor, does not cast the Imperius, how can she force us to obey her? United we stand, divided we fall, defend our quality of education!"

With as much aplomb as I could muster, I delivered my final line: "Strike!"

* * *

**Pindt oaks: anagram of pink toads **

**Explosive ashcals: weird synonym thing for volatile (explosive) organic (carbon=coal=ash) chemicals (just the final syllable)**


	10. Chapter 10

Fog crept, silent, over the Great Lake and from the Forbidden Forest. There was no horizon—the overcast skies melted into the gray before me and into the water which reflected the colorless world above. Behind me, I could see the overlying illusion of ruins on the castle, forlorn stones superimposed over windows glowing with cheery light. One world where time had taken its toll, and another frozen and preserved. The bleakness fanned Discord, scratched at my Flames, fingernails on chalkboard in my soul.

It was cold. Not anywhere near the freezing temperatures of Siberian winters, let alone Antarctica's howling winds that tore away heat. But there was a particular sort of creeping dampness which soaked through clothing and skin and down into bone. Italy, Mediterranean and sunny, was a far cry from my motherland's ever-wet clime, but this land was close enough to make me homesick.

There were differences, of course. I could not feel malice bleeding out of the ground and pressing into my soul, nor the terrible pride that suffused the mists of Kirigakure. There was no sea-iron-tang at the back of my throat, salty and sweet and metallic, nor a familiar, ever-present patter of disembodied footsteps where I could not see. No phantoms formed by patches of lighter and thicker vapor; no whispers carried by the currents. Kirigakure no Sato was where gods died and reality wore thin; Hogwarts merely a bulwark of magic. Kunai felt out of place in kitchens, and I felt my foreign nature the strongest where I _almost_ belonged.

Even so, I was disciplined enough to not find myself simply struck by bouts of loneliness. Legilimancy was a cruel art, for something so clinical in nature. I was accustomed to the careful teasing of genjutsu, the sledgehammers of dojutsu, and even the intimacy of Flame. The wizarding method was cleaner, clear cut and removed, but somehow, their ability to dredge up memory was far more potent. The professor's probe had stirred up settled things: Chigiri's glorious viciousness, the grand triumph of Kiri remade, and though it was worth it to learn to weave silk-fine threads of magic with thought to form Occlumency's cloth, the wound to my heart was still raw, hours after the lesson was past.

Bel was warm beside me, and had no objection to my tears soaking his shoulder. "It hurts." I stated, "Moreso that I can never return. Ages pass. My world has passed with them."

I did not need words of comfort, only an arm about me as I condensed my pain into sounds and syllables. "I have done my duty. There is no regret to focus my loss. I saw far enough, even then. This one knew that this one's people would go the way of Ozymandias, or mayhaps Troy. _Victory, defeat, right, wrong; in the blink of an eye, they all are gone. The sun sets, a few degrees of red; the green mountains remain yet. A white-haired fisherman sits at the water margin, grown used to the sight of autumn moons and spring winds. A joyful meeting with a ladle of murky drink set between—how many things of times old and young, have become but the subjects of idle musings?_"

"Kings remember little; Peasants even less. The hands that built the castles of kings are long forgotten; the years that bred the peasants' crops are gone beyond memory." Bel drew his hand through the water, "Who marks the marriage of hydrogen and oxygen, though life is lost without their union?"

"Though worn beyond recognition," I agreed, voice rough, "we still pave the path of history. The present walks upon us to the future, and though faded and forgotten, our contributions remain, rippling onwards towards eternity."

Yet all of history and all of the future is but an eyeblink in the life of the cosmos. The sickle swings overhead, the stars wheel in their slow dance, and everything ultimately dies a cold, silent, death.

Discord fed itself upon what I had seen in death, whispering of inevitable doom. I had heard much of this final fate however, and with the barest bit of effort, smothered it with a smile as I took Bel's hand.

"A spar, methinks, Prince mine, to burn this coldness from our bones."

He chased me into the fog-shrouded forest, and wraiths shaped by memory condensed out of Mist to battle him.

* * *

I joined Bel at the Gryffindor table this evening. We were both sore and aching from the fight, although I could have been said to have gotten the shorter end of the stick-my opponent had more sharp edges on him than Bel's. As a result, while we were equally bruised-or perhaps Bel was more so-I had a myriad of cuts scattered on my skin. Scrapes too, but those were mostly hidden by my clothes. Lines of red marked my throat and face, with another handful on my arms, not wholly obscured by my sleeves. And of course, though hidden by the curl of my fingers, the slash across them throbbed lightly. Even after treating our injuries, we were quite obviously, to use a colloquialism, a mess.

"What happened to you two?"

Hermione leaned over in concern and catalogued our injuries. "You look like you lost a fight with the Whomping Willow!"

Bel shrugged, "It was just a fair bit of fun."

"A fight, a cure for my Prince's boredom." I explained, propping my chin up with the palm of my wounded hand and stabbing a chunk of potato with the other.

"You fought because you were bored—_you_ were made to fight because _he_ was bored?" Her plate of shepherd's pie was neglected as Hermione turned her full attention on us.

I frowned at her. "A servant who lets his Prince suffer ennui is a poor one indeed. There was little _making _involved. Bleeding is quite little to demand of me."

On the other hand, partially loosing use of one hand was. I nudged Bel gently. Bel reached over to cut my meat for me.

The girl's eyes were narrowed suspiciously as she took in the knife-marks on my skin and the distinct lack of them on Bel. To be fair, it was easier to use Rain Flames to soothe inflammation and reduce bruising than to close open wounds.

I sighed, then jerked up my sleeves to categorize each injury. "Defensive wounds, offensive wounds. That one's a scrape from a slip. That's a bruise from hitting a hard surface too quickly. Oh, and that one's self-inflicted—I don't know why people expect you to cut your hand when your arms work far better. It was a spar, and one that went on past first blood. Hurt is expected, Hermione, and also reciprocal."

Bel helpfully drew up his sleeves to catalogue his bruises, as well as the burns I had inflicted with fire and lightning, freeing me to eat my dinner before it cooled. Unlike me, he gave a brief explanation of the characteristics of each type of injury. He would have made an excellent teacher if not for his peculiar combination of sloth and pride.

Hermione took in Bel's words thoughtfully. "I can see where you're coming from," She allowed, "but you're still hurting each other, and little making is not none. I've read up on Astonia—the monarchy gives you power over your subjects' lives and deaths."

"My prince has no power over me that can not be disallowed." I countered gently, "And injury is not always the same as harm. My relationship with my prince uncolored by that of subject and sovereign."

Hermione frowned, "But you two are master and servant…"

Untrue, for all that we made play at such. Bel was a peer, an equal, and a friend. He was neither my Kage nor liege-lord, and for all that I would die for him (and vice versa), I did not give him the power to command my life and my death. I kept such thoughts away from my expression as I watched the girl's thoughts on her face.

I arrived at her conclusion before she did, though at the same time as Ron, "'mione wan's you t' tal' 'bou' Shpew."

"Master and servant—master and slave." I mused.

Bel giggled, "Though 'slave' is too ugly for the peasants to use!"

"You might be the only people who can legitimately comment on the issue from experience—your clarification on the differences between servants—even lifelong ones!—and slaves would have to be recognized! You can force wizarding society to change how they treat House Elves!"

"How Wizarding _Britain _treats House Elves." I corrected, because Oma wouldn't send me a Christmas present if I didn't.

"A worthy purpose." Bel agreed, "The Prince accepts it! But it's almost time for dessert, and the Prince will not have it spiced with serious conversation!"

His warning came in the nick of time. No sooner did Hermione shovel her last bite of pie into her mouth than the plates emptied, to be replaced by tarts and pudding and fudge.

"Umbridge is looking worst and worst these days." Harry observed, "Once you made that scene and walked out with half the class, people've just stopped going, especially muggleborns. I didn't think so many people had it in them."

"The broken window effect." I ate a bite of apfelstrudel, "A spark of chaos will give rise to an inferno. Once someone does it, it's just escalation."

"Hanging together lest you all hang apart." Bel interjected cheerfully.

"Slytherin put it to vote." I revealed, "It had to be noted Umbridge still has influence in the Ministry. There are individuals whose parents are under Umbridge's power, therefore vulnerable to retaliation. We have agreed that we will give up this year's House Cup and allow individuals to strike if they wish. I believe Ravenclaw has taken a similar measure as a stopgap, and is designing more organized resistance. Hufflepuff has collectively walked out."

"That doesn't solve the problem of us actually learning defense though." Harry pointed out.

Hermione suddenly smiled, "Actually, Harry, I have an idea about that." Turning to us, she said, "The first Hogsmeade Weekend's this week. I've organized a meeting to talk about that at the Hog's Head Pub. Belphegor can come, although as a first year, you aren't allowed in Hogsmeade, Bael."

"That will be alright." I shrugged, "I trust my Prince to keep me informed."

As a transfer student, I should be allowed the chance to experience more of the local culture, so I doubted the usual age limit would apply. Besides, I was a professional criminal—if lawbreaking was acceptable, rulebreaking was too. On the other hand, I was a Slytherin, and we were treated with more suspicion than Kumo, so my participation would bring far more awkwardness upon these teenagers. Being pleasantly exhausted and in need of a chat with the Headmaster, I was willing to concede.

* * *

**The Discord is a future plot point in WADRS, and this time, it's Bel speaking Basil's language, instead of the other way around. Homesickness bring first person pronouns, although the Ozymandias line is spoken by the Basil who is, instead of who he once was.**


	11. Chapter 11

**In which Basil, I have no idea how you passed a real boy, you talk like someone out of a Victorian novel all the time, this is Unnatural.**

I released my pseudo-henge.

"Good morning, Bael."

"Good morning to you as well, headmaster." I said agreeably, dusting off my robes.

"Would you like a sherbet lemon?" The old man proffered me a bowl full of shockingly mundane sweets.

"Yes, please, headmaster." I took one.

He coughed, "Ah, forgive an old man his occasional foolishness, I have forgotten that it is rather difficult to enjoy a sweet and carry on a conversation—it is considered rude by many, I believe—so let me assure you that I shall not be offended if you take one while we talk—as long as you allow me to do the same."

That was a problem, and I had decided to just save it in my pocket for later, but if he was offering…

"Then I shall take advantage of your hospitality." I popped the sweet into my mouth and incinerated the wrapping with a handful of bluebell Flame while Headmaster Dumbledore mirrored me.

He vanished the wrapper with a wave of his wand, the bright blue fish patterns on his robes catching my eye, "Thank you for indulging my peculiarities, Bael. And now, do you have an idea of when Mister Belphegor is joining us?"

"Alas, this task shall not require more than one of us, and so my Prince has left it to me." I smiled wryly, "Having familiarized himself with the tales surrounding the target in question, he thought it best not to become involved—troublesome family members, you see. More importantly, thus, we do not leave Harry and his friends unprotected in your absence—as stipulated by our contract."

And because Bel wanted to keep an eye on the little rebellion Hermione was masterminding—something about peasant's uprisings being quite funny from the sidelines.

"Your scrupulousness is very appreciated." Dumbledore said agreeably, "Although it seems to be leaving your professors quite conflicted—on one hand, your handwriting makes Miss Granger's look giant, and we poor grownups do not have such good eyesight; on the other hand, they are wonderful dissertations, and we are quite willing to endure headaches to read them. I myself was very impressed by your insight into the loopholes in most wards—which you aptly put into practice with your entrance. I believe you term it 'environmental transformation'?"

"Yes, headmaster." I confirmed, "Seeing as transfigurations into inanimate objects seem to be quite harmless, one could create a delayed reversion that allows one to bypass the wards as a permitted substance—in this case, water."

"Fascinating." He peered at me under his half-moon glasses (I was ridiculously short and it was highly annoying), "We wizards seem to focus so much on creating complex solutions to our complicated problems that sometimes, we forget that the simplest ways work as well. Thank you for reminding me of this, Bael."

I restrained a sigh—that would have been impolite, "Our time is not infinite, headmaster." I pressed gently, "If you would, I believe that an aerial entrance would serve our purposes quite well. Heavy mist lies over our destination, which would shield our approach, not only from prying eyes, but from the wards as well—as you have pointed out, the heavens are a common oversight, particularly when the target prides himself so much on his mastery of unassisted flight."

He poorly suppressed a frown, but pushed himself up from his seat, bones creaking, "Very well, Bael. If you would take my elbow, I will apparate us to the borders of Little Hangleton, from which we will proceed with your plan."

I reached up (damn everyone else's inappropriate height, Bel was half a head taller than me at this point), and pressed my Flames tight beneath my skin, so that they would not burn away at the magic pressing against it.

* * *

A moment of crushing pressure later, and we were wreathed in dense fog. Save for the darkness of the grass beneath our feet and the lighter brown of the dirt road, all was grey. The Headmaster sketched patterns into the air with his wand, different shades of frowns flickering over his face at the results, "You are correct in saying that there are fewer defenses against threats from the air, but that does not mean none. Although you are confident in your ability to weather even the strongest feats of magic, I confess that I do not wish to test you against curses of consumption and degradation, or poisons that eat at the spirit."

I inclined my head, "And your solution, Headmaster?"

_At the client's discretion_, I reminded myself.

"We will approach from the ground." He decided slowly, pausing to think between words, "Tom will have created a path for himself to take when the urge strikes him to visit, and so there should be a way of least resistance for us to find."

"Very well, Headmaster." I said agreeably, forcing down irritation—I could take my annoyance out on our opponents soon enough. One of my mission parameters was to ensure the least possible observation of Flame use possible, as in compliance with Omerta, and so I then verbally nudged him, "Would you lead the way, sir?"

"Of course." He answered as I knew he would, "I will disarm Tom's traps while we advance, and you, Bael, will watch my back—if that is agreeable?"

_Just let me send fire before me and leave but ashes in my wake. _"Of course. If you would begin?"

* * *

I watched the wizard's wardwork with superficial interest, stepping in before he could react whenever more tangible guardians appeared, and we made our way through rambling roads until we finally reached a run-down shack with a snake's skeleton on the door.

Wordlessly, we reached a consensus. The true challenge had only now begun. As a precaution, I stoked power into an inferno beneath my skin, enduring the Discordant buzz in my teeth as I pushed down the soul-freezing cold that was the end of all things. The Professor conjured a Labrador, then threw the conjured beast into the door. It rotted upon contact, and the twisted fire beneath my skin blazed in recognition of an aspect of its nature.

Like the screech of fingers upon chalkboard, or bow pressed overhard upon string, the corruption in me tore free to consume its lesser shadow.

Like the arrow loosed, the die cast, ink-spotted blue raged beyond my control, consuming the heart of the decrepit hut before us in a matter of instances, and seeking to spread further in its eternal hunger.

With a great effort, I leashed the chaos which was tranquility to my will once more, and starved it of breath until its last sparks guttered out. The empty shell collapsed, soundless, as fragile as an autumn leaf worn to delicate lattice. Bleak, desolate emptiness was all that remained. There was neither ash nor heat nor smoke, for when all things were worn down and all things were level, when all things lost their order and were dispersed in the eternal winter of the world, there was none.

The air shimmered as a mirage as energy and matter returned into the near void, and in my near fugue, I almost missed the old man walking into the annihilation, as if in a trance, drawn by some enchantment that had escaped my Flame, kneeling down upon earth-covered-by-nothingness as he unearthed and opened a small box, reaching in, dreamlike.

I sprang to his side.

"Professor Dumbledore?" I held out a hand to stop him. "Are you quite certain that you are alright?"

He blinked furiously. I tactfully pretended not to see.

"Aah. Thank you, young Bael. I am fine. Shall we proceed?"

"You are aged, professor, and the terms of the contract included protecting the residents of the school from harm." I pushed him aside gently, "I would be remiss in my duties if I allowed you to act when you are enfeebled."

I pulled a layer of Mist and Rain over my skin for protection, the latter quieted now it had been pastured, then picked up the ring. It was heavy gold, burnished and unblemished, with a square stone set therein, dark and fathomless, marked with a triangle, holding a circle and bisected by a line.

"The Resurrection Stone." The Professor murmured, making an aborted gesture towards the gem. Using a summoner of shades to anchor one's own, how poetic. There was so much lost to the mists of time, that could be recovered by seeking the testimony of the dead. My Hell Ring froze with welding cold against my skin, possessive and territorial, and a pinprick of blinding indigo brilliance shot towards the metal band, the refracted light within the dark stone turning it into a night sky full of stars as the soul fragment within was burned into nothingness, consumed by infernal power.

The action of the 666 reminded me of Edo Tensei, and the Mists of Kiri, and my ghostly mentor, driven by malice. The dead should stay dead and the stone left to be forgotten. But it was a fine gem, and already cut and set, with a necromantic bent. That I believed, even without the Horcrux's paltry attempts at influencing me.

"May I keep this, Professor?"

I observed the play of pained, guilty longing upon the old man's face, before determination flashed across it and it shuttered, and he nodded, "Of course, Bael. But I must caution you: any shade you summon would be torn here from there rightful peace, and no matter the power of the Resurrection Stone, they and the living will always belong to different worlds. Do not be so drawn by what had been, as to forget that which is."

I slipped the jewelry into an inner pocket of my page's livery. A trip to Talbot's would be in order after this mission. The movement made the cut on my hand sting. I had been an utter idiot dealing with Bel at the tail end of our spar, choosing the impractical slice under my fingers and not the arm, where it would heal quickly, unstrained by the movement.

…I had been impractical. I had chosen to do the insensible, irrational thing of hurting my hand just for a fraction more swiftness in cushioning my beloved's sharp mind. An irrational, insensible, unreasonable thing, simply for the sake of that queer thing called love. Love for an individual, born of selfishness transmuted to selflessness, and not the statement-following-statement of duty.

It was a surprise. Was this how others loved?

**Author's Note:**

> Also, Atheris is the name of a genus of viper.  
Thanks for betaing, DerangedJester!


End file.
